Who Is That In The Mirror?
by Yay Ninja Bob
Summary: COMPLETE. ...I felt… guilty. I felt… sad. I felt… sane. I was a normal person like I had been just a month ago. I was Kyle again. All thanks to Stan... PLEASE REVIEW!
1. Where's My Nicotine Gum?

**Who Is That In The Mirror?**

_A fanfic from the slightly disturbed mind of the Californian who hates California._

Chapter 1: Where's My Nicotine Gum?

I never really took it seriously when Cartman said that Jews didn't have souls. He was just fucking with me. He was an asshole and that's what he did. But now I'm beginning to think he was right all along.

I wasn't like anyone else at Kenny's funeral. One of my best pals ever died and I never cried. An innocent seventeen year old kid was taken from this world and I didn't shed one god damn tear. I felt nothing. He was dead and it was as if I just didn't care. Watching Kenny's coffin being lowered into the ground didn't have the slightest effect on me. It was like watching the ten o'clock news. _Today a man in Denver was shot down in front of Jay's Mini Mart… _Who cares? Kenny was dead and I accepted it quicker than anything.

I hated myself for this. I hated not being able to cry like Stan. I hated not being pissed off at the world like Cartman. I hated not being able to feel. But this emptiness-- it really helped when I got in the most fucked up situation imaginable.

Butters was always a pussy. He was always a loner, too. And being a pussy and a loner was what caused him to become suicidal. The poor kid. I tutored him in math and we met every Tuesday and Thursday at his house. One day, I came over like I always had, and he was about ready to shoot himself, except he couldn't do it. He was too scared.

He sat there crying about how fucked up his life was and how it wasn't worth living anymore. I sat there listening… What the hell was I supposed to do?

"Dude, it'll be okay," I said trying to comfort him, "Just… you don't have to kill yourself…"

"I do!" he cried, "I just can't!" He wept louder. It was pathetic. "Kyle… Kyle, can you help me?"

"Well, sure… We just need to get you some therapy--"

"No! I have a therapist, don't you get it? I've had one for seven years! I need you to help me kill myself!"

"What?"

"Please, Kyle! Oh, please say you'll help me!"

And I did. It was really quite easy. We went into his garage and I told him to sit in the car with the windows rolled down. I told him to start the engine and wait in the car. I closed the garage and left. I knew the carbon monoxide from the car would build up in the closed, contained space. I knew it would kill him and it did. Carbon monoxide poisoning was supposed to be painless. You're death was supposed to be like falling asleep. It was often called, "the coward's way out" which was quite fitting for Butters. The next day I got an invite to another funeral that I would not cry at.

Killing Butters was so easy and after that I started thinking about a lot of fucked up shit. I knew it was fucked up and I laughed about it. What the hell was wrong with me? Laughing about screwed up shit like how I could murder my family by pulling the same trick I did with Butters… it was fucked up… and I liked it.

Why did it have to be this way? Why was my passion _this_? I didn't want to like this fucked up shit anymore. I tried to get my mind off it, but I couldn't. I would just be walking home from school and there'd be a little girl playing jump rope. An innocent child… and I'd think about choking the kid with her precious little jump rope and throwing her body into some river... I hated it, yet loved it. I was addicted. I was addicted and I couldn't get any help. There was no Alcoholics Anonymous for me. There was no nicotine gum. I was completely alone. Forced to fight with this addiction for the rest of my life.

A couple weeks after Butters died, it was Easter Sunday and the church was holding some easter egg hunt thing. Hell, did I feel out of place, but Stan insisted that I go.

Cartman was being the rat bastard he always was. "Hey, Kyle!" he said waving a colored egg in front of my face. He was fucking wasted. After Kenny died, his after school sport was drinking the shit from his mother's stash. The fat fuck smashed the egg, which turned out not to be hardboiled but raw, on my head. He rubbed the gooey mess into my red hair.

"You son of a bitch!" I said shoving him. I was about to throw a punch, but Stan stopped me.

Stan and I went into the bathroom to try to wash the crap out of my hair. "Just ignore him, Dude," Stan said, "He's fucked up right now. You don't wanna mess with him, Kyle. All he has to do is sit on you and your done for," he joked.

Even though Stan was trying to laugh it off, I was still mad as hell. I told Stan that I was going home to take a shower and left. When I got home no one was there. I found a note from my mom saying that my grandpa was in the hospital and they had to rush off to see him. My dad would be back at seven to pick me up and take me to see him.

I sat down and began watching TV, but I heard something outside. It was Cartman. He yelled a bunch of crap at me, but all I could understand was that he was really drunk. He pushed me and I fell to the ground. He started punching me and I fought back. Some twenty blows later, I had the upper hand. I completely lost it.

Cartman was now the one on the floor, curled up in the fetal position, crying as I kicked the shit out of him. I paused for a bit, to catch my breath, and the fat fuck rolled onto his belly and coughed up blood. But I wasn't finished. I pulled him by the collar and began punching him in the face. One punch, two, three, four… I didn't stop.

"Kyle! Oh my God!" I heard a familiar voice scream from behind. Stan tried pulling my away, and on instinct, I punched him in the face as well, and he fell behind me. I continued to strike Cartman over and over again.

"Kyle! Kyle, stop it!" Stan was now pulling my jacket, desperately trying to get me away from Cartman, "_Kyle_!"

Stan finally succeeded in pulling me backward. I lied on the floor staring up at Stan who stood looking down at me with wide eyes. I was panting for air, and the only words I could let out were: "He started it." I sat up.

Stan walked over to Cartman who lied motionless on the floor. He gently kicked him with his foot and the fat kid didn't stir. Stan looked back at me with a horrified look on his face. He knelt down and pressed his ear against Cartman's chest. "He's… dead."

* * *

What do you think? Is it good so far? Bad? Please review. 


	2. A Murderer's Best Friend

**Who Is That In The Mirror?**

_A fanfic from the slightly disturbed mind of the Californian who hates California._

Chapter 2: A Murderer's Best Friend

Stan and I stood over Cartman's dead body, wondering what came next. I was scared. There's no way I was going to get away with this. I was a murderer. Why the hell did I do it? What came over me? There was no turning back now.

Stan was quiet. He kept looking at me, then at Cartman, and at me again. "Dude… you killed him…"

"I know…"

"Jesus Christ…" Stan's voice was hushed and faint. He ran his hand threw his black hair, "…Kyle…Jesus, what are we going to do?"

There was no hope. How the fuck could we cover this up? There was no chance. "I just gotta turn myself in and hopefully they'll go easy on me--"

"No, Kyle!" Stan interrupted, "You can't do that!" he paused, "Let's just get him inside… then we'll try to figure things out…"

Good old Stan. You really know someone's your best friend when they try to help you get away with murder. So we sat there staring at the dead Eric Cartman for a long ass time. I had already given up and was trying to decipher whether or not they would give a seventeen-year-old the death penalty. Suddenly the door bell rang. Stan and I looked at each other. It wasn't my dad; it was only two o'clock.

Stan and I answered the door. It was Mrs. Cartman. She was crying so much, we couldn't understand her at all. Stan and I glanced at each other, each of us had the same question on our minds: How did she find out? She handed Stan a wrinkled piece of notebook paper with some writing on it. Stan read it out loud, "Dear, Mother. By the time you've read this, I'll probably be far, far away from Colorado. I can't take this stupid town anymore and so I'm running away. Don't come looking for me. I'll be fine. I stole the money from your purse and its plenty for where I'm going. Signed Eric Theodore Cartman."

"Have you seen him, boys?" she said wiping the tears from her eyes.

"No," Stan and I said in unison.

"Well, please tell me if you do," and she left.

And that was it. My ticket out. Cartman wasn't killed. He ran away from home. I was safe. The only thing that was left was to get rid of the body. And so Stan and I took a trip to the cemetery.

It was simple. Find a newly dug grave, dig it up again, dump Eric inside, and cover it back up. I didn't think we could pull it off. It was the middle of the day. Someone had to be at the cemetery and they would see us. But Stan predicted there would be no one because of the celebrations happening at the church, and he was right. The place was deserted. We were done in twenty minutes. We weren't sure if it would work, but we hoped to God that it did.

As Stan drove me back home from the cemetery, he talked to me as if I was a normal person. He chatted about the upcoming baseball season and the unit exam we had last Friday in English. He treated me like he always had. He completely ignored the fact that I just killed someone.

"Stan?" I interrupted.

"What, Dude?"

"Stan, I just killed someone."

"Cartman ran away from home," he said plainly. He kept his eyes focused on the road. He tried to hide his feelings, but I could read those blue eyes of his. He was troubled. He didn't like what he had just done, but he did it for _me_. We'd always been best friends, but it was at that moment when I realized the significance of our relationship. He was truly my best friend.

When Stan dropped me off, he wanted me to come over and watch a movie or something. I told him I was busy, and at first he took it as a lie, but I explained about my grandpa and he left with no objections.

I went up to my room to try to finish my history homework, but I had trouble with it. It wasn't the assignment. History was an easy grade, but right above my desk was a mirror. Every time I looked up from my paper, my own reflection scared the shit out of me. I laughed at myself. How could I be so stupid? It was me, and only me. But the reflection continued to bother me and I eventually tore down the mirror and put it away in my desk.

My dad came and we drove to the hospital. Both my grandpa and Ike were asleep when I got there. The only difference was the eleven-year-old was in the waiting room and the eighty-seven-year-old was in a hospital bed. My parents were both a mess. They stood outside the hospital room talking to the doctor.

"I hate to see him in so much pain," I heard my mom crying.

I stood over my grandpa. If she hated to see him in so much pain, why did she allow it? And then, on impulse, I pulled off the clear mask that supplied my grandpa with oxygen. I threw the piece of plastic on the floor, took a few steps backward, and watched the old man closely. He remained completely still for several moments. Then suddenly his eyes shot open, and he made a loud gasp for air. I jumped at the sudden motion. Grandpa sat up in bed, his hands were wrapped around his throat as he looked frantically around the room. Our eyes locked. He continued to struggle for air, as he stared at me with frightened eyes. And then those eyes slowly closed and it sounded like he was choking. He dropped his hands to his side and fell back on his pillow. And then he didn't move at all.

My mom and dad came in. They noticed me staring at Grandpa, and finally realized that he was gone.

"_What happened?" _My mother cried.

My dad screamed for the doctor. The doctor and a nurse rushed in. "Someone's removed his oxygen!"

Everyone in the room turned to me. "He removed it on his own!" I lied and quickly worked up some tears, "I _tried _to stop him! But I-- I was scared! I couldn't move!" I cried louder.

"Oh, Kyle, my poor baby!" my mom wept. She ran over and embraced me, "It's okay, Kyle, sweetie! It's not your fault! Don't blame yourself!"

And so my parents bought it. Once again, I got away with murder.


	3. Of Orange Juice And Ike Broflovski

**Who Is That In The Mirror?**

_A fanfic from the slightly disturbed mind of the Californian who hates California._

Chapter 3: Of Orange Juice And Ike Broflovski

That night I sat up in bed doing a lot of thinking. I was so fucking confused. I really hated myself for lying to my parents. I knew what I did was wrong on so many levels, but even though I _knew_, I still failed to feel the tiniest bit of sympathy.

It was always pitch black at this time of night in South Park. Everyone in the little town was probably asleep. I couldn't sleep. I was scared. Fuck, was I scared. What was happening to me? I needed help. I wanted help. Where the fuck could I get help? I murdered my grandpa, and Cartman, and Butters. It felt so good when I did it. I felt… powerful… I felt… happy… But it was wrong. I was doing wrong.

But who said it was wrong in the first place? Who was the person that set the moral standards of our society? Why was what I did _wrong_? I killed Butters. Was that wrong? I was helping him. Aren't we supposed to help others? I killed Cartman. He was an asshole. Everyone hated him. He had no life and would probably have died on the streets. Was killing him wrong? And Grandpa… he was old and sick… he was in pain… Was relieving him of his pain wrong? No. Or at least, I didn't think so…

Perhaps murdering has special exceptions. Every murder I committed seemed to have a unique circumstance. Yeah. I wasn't doing anything wrong. I was a good guy. I was helping people. Yeah, that's right.

I felt proud, happy, and content. I lied down and slowly drifted off to sleep. When I awoke, my little brother was looking over me. "Ma said you have to make me breakfast today."

I sat up and rubbed my eyes sleepily, "Why where'd she go?"

My brother shrugged, "She and Dad left somewhere. They didn't say where."

As I cooked up some scrambled eggs for my brother and me, I noticed that Ike stared at me in quite a peculiar way. I didn't like it. What the fuck was his problem?

"What happened last night with Grandpa?" Ike questioned as I handed him his plate of food.

"Didn't Mom and Dad tell you? He pulled off his oxygen mask." I sat down across from him at the kitchen table.

"Why the hell would he do that?"

"I don't know! Just shut up and eat, Ike!" I was edgy. Did he know? He did. I knew he did. He knew something was going on. I could tell. The little bastard was going to be my death.

"I just don't get why he would--"

"Ike, shut the _fuck up_!"

Ike was silent for several moments, "Can I have some juice?"

"Can't you get it yourself?" The boy frowned. I sighed, "Whatever. Fine." I went into the kitchen, opened up the fridge, grabbed the orange juice and set it on the counter. I unscrewed the cap and accidentally dropped it on the floor. I bent down to pick it up, and I noticed that the cabinet the cap sat in front of was slightly opened. I opened the cabinet and saw numerous cleaning products.

"Hurry up, Kyle! I'm thirsty!" Ike shouted from the other room. Now he was mocking me, the little shit. God damn, was he pissing me off. "Nevermind!" he shouted moments later, "I'll do it myself!" I heard his footsteps approaching. Quickly, I grabbed a bottle of Pinesol and poured its contents into the gallon of orange juice. I put the Pinesol back just as my brother came in.

He poured himself a tall glass of the newly contaminated drink and took a sip. I half expected him to spit the crap out complaining of its taste, but he simply remarked, "Sour," and went back into the dining room drinking the stuff.

My brother got really sick and he fucking deserved it. My ma thought it was just the stomach flu, because he was throwing up a lot. She told him to lie down and to drink lots of liquids, which unfortunately for him was more orange juice.

I wasn't concerned with my brother's condition. At the time my feeling was that his death would mean less trouble for me. I called Stan up to see if he wanted to go see a movie, but he had plans.

"Dude, I can't. I gotta study for fucking Spanish. My dad's really pissed that I got a C last quarter."

"Well maybe I can come over and help."

"Yeah, fucking Einstein. You do that." he laughed.

I hung up the phone, "Ma! I'm going over to Stan's!"

"Okay!" she called back, "Be safe!"

"I will!" And I left.

I got to Stan's and it was only him and his sister. Stan and I sat at the kitchen table quizzing each other on verbs and tenses. About an hour later, we decided to take a break and have a little snack, which was cheesy poofs and soda.

Stan said that on Saturday he had a date with Wendy. I told him he was fucking crazy because she'll just end up dumping him again like she always did. Stan ignored the comment, "But Dude, her cousin from Utah is down here for spring break. She's Wendy's age and her name is Marie. Wendy wanted me to set you up with her. What do you think?"

"Fuck that! I'm not going on no double date! And if she's anything like Wendy, fuck no!" I popped a cheesy poof in my mouth, "Besides, I gotta go to my grandpa's funeral that day."

"Aw, Dude… I'm sorry. I didn't know…"

I shook my head, "I'm okay, Stan. Really." I wanted to tell Stan what really happened. He _did _witness what I did to Cartman… maybe he would understand. But I decided it would be best if I kept it to myself.

"Are you sure?"

I nodded. Just then, my cell phone rang in my back pocket. I answered, "Hello."

"Kyle," my mom said on the other line, "Come home as soon as possible, sweetie." Her voice was soft and trembling.

"Ma, what's wrong?"

Stan sat up in his chair, "What?"

"Kyle," my mom began, "Your brother… he's--" she broke down crying.

"Ma! Ma, don't cry!" I pleaded, "Come on, calm down, Ma! I coming home." I hung up the phone and looked at Stan. I was afraid and Stan could tell. For the first time, I did something that caused this horrible sinking feeling in my heart. I felt guilty.

"Is everything okay, Kyle?" he said with a worried look on his face.

"Dude… can you give me a ride home?"

Stan nodded slowly, "Of course… but what happened?"

"I think… I killed my brother…"

* * *

Thanks so much for all the reviews. Please continue to read and review! By the way, I drew some pictures of the boys as teens, so you can get a better feel of the story. If your interested visit my homepage that you can find on my profile. Thanks. 


	4. A Whole Lot More In Common

**Who Is That In The Mirror?**

_A fanfic from the slightly disturbed mind of the Californian who hates California._

Chapter 4: A Whole Lot More In Common

As Stan drove me home, he was dead silent. His muted manner only made me feel worse. Ike couldn't be dead, he just couldn't… but he was. When Stan and I pulled up to the front of my house, an ambulance was just leaving. Its sirens were not on… why would they be? The kid was already gone.

My mother wouldn't stop crying. She was hysterical. I couldn't stand it. With each wail she let out, my stomach took another turn. Stan stood beside me, watching the whole scene with his jaw dropped. Ike was dead and I killed him. I felt sick. I could physically feel my face go white. I felt dizzy and nauseous.

Suddenly, there was a jump in my stomach and I ran to the bathroom and to the toilet where I threw up what felt like everything I had ever eaten in my entire life. Stan stood at the doorway of the bathroom, looking at me with a dazed look on his face. I think he was still confused as to what was happening. I went to the sink and washed my face. I looked up at the mirror. I looked pathetic. I hated it. I stared into my own eyes for the longest time. I was a murderer. A heartless killer. I killed Butters. I killed Cartman. I killed my grandpa and I killed Ike. I broke down crying. I cried so fucking hard I fell to the floor, just cradling myself. I hated myself. I truly just wanted to die. I hated that just hours ago I felt as if I was on top of the world, when in reality I was the lowest being on the fucking planet. Why had I been so happy when I did what I did? I was a fucking sicko, that's why.

Stan just stood there looking down at me. Tears also fell from his eyes, but he made no sound. Several minutes later he finally broke his silence. "Kyle…" that's all he said.

"Stan!" I said still crying, "Stan! I'm fucking demented! I'm a god damn murderer!" I threw myself to his feet. I was scared he was going to leave me. I was scared he was going to run away, leaving me all alone. I grabbed his ankles and he struggled to keep his balance, "Stan!" I continued to wail, "I don't want to kill people anymore! Stan! Stan, I fucking-- Fuck, I'm-- I'm scared, Stan! I'm so _fucking _scared! I-I don't like this! I hate this! I hate _me_! Stan, please! Please, dude! Please, you gotta help me! _Please, Stan_!"

Stan stepped backwards, releasing himself from my grip. He knelt down and helped me off the floor. I stood in front of him, looking him in the eye as he looked me in the eye. "Kyle…" his voice was soft, "I swear to God, I'll help you."

I calmed down a little, but I still cried. Stan suggested that I should lay down and so we went up into my room. I lied down on my bed and Stan sat by my side. As my crying turned into faint whimpers, Stan stared straight ahead, his eyes fixed on the blank wall. I wondered what he was thinking. I wondered how he felt. I wondered what he thought about me and if he was regretting that I was his friend. He stood up and took a few steps away from me. My heart jumped. I thought that he was going to abandon me. But he stood there, motionless and quiet for a long period. "Do you want a glass of water?" he asked, "I think it'll help you calm down…"

I shook my head, "…no thanks…" I said between sniffles.

"Are you sure? How about some soda or juice? I think if you drink something it'll really help."

I paused, "…orange juice."

"Orange juice?" Stan repeated.

"Yeah. Everything that's left in the fridge, please."

"Okay… Be right back." And he disappeared.

I lied on my back thinking about what I was setting myself up for. I wondered how much orange juice it took for my brother to die and how much he left for me. Stan returned with a tall glass filled to the brim. I asked him if that was all that was left and he said, "Yeah. If you want more, I can run to the store--"

"That's okay," I said. I took the cup and drank its contents as fast as I could. Stan watched me with a raised eyebrow. I could tell he knew that what I was doing was a lot more complicated than simply quenching my thirst.

I handed the empty glass back to Stan, and he sat it on my desk. I lied down and waited for something to happen. "Kyle?" I heard Stan say as I lied there with my eyes closed, praying for death.

"What?"

"Are you okay?"

I nodded, "I'm fine." At that moment, I felt a sharp stinging in my stomach.

Stan saw the look of pain on my face, "Are… are you sure, Dude?"

"Yeah." I tried to relax myself.

"Kyle… Kyle… _Kyle_," his voice grew louder each time, "You're sweating. Dude, you're sweating a lot!"

"Am I?"

"Kyle, what the fuck was wrong with the juice?" his voice sounded panicked.

I opened my eyes and looked at him. My vision was blurred and my head was pounding. "_Kyle_? What did you do to yourself?"

I would've answered his question, but everything went black.

* * *

When I awoke, I was in the hospital. I felt hot and incredibly thirsty. At first, I was shocked that I was alive. I thought I had died for sure. Then I got angry. Why the fuck didn't I die? Didn't I deserve it?

I sat up in the hospital bed and looked around. It was late. Both my parents and Stan were asleep, sitting up in chairs beside me. I reached over and touched Stan. He woke up abruptly. I pressed my hands against my lips, telling him to keep quiet. I didn't want my parents to wake up, especially my mom. I gently threw off the covers and Stan and I tip toed into the hallway.

"What happened?" I asked in a raspy voice.

Stan pointed at a water fountain some three feet away and I went to get a drink. As I sipped the cool liquid, Stan explained to me what happened.

"I told your parents that you passed out after drinking the orange juice and they called for an ambulance and they took you here," he shrugged, "That's about it." He paused, "They know now that the juice was poisoned, Dude. They're just stumped on who did it."

"It was me."

"I know."

"You…you didn't tell them?"

Stan shook his head, "Why the hell would I do that?"

"Because," I said, "They'd lock me up! Give me death if I'm lucky!"

"Kyle, don't talk like that--"

"Stan!" I yelled. I looked around to see if anyone was around that heard me, "_Stan_," I said in a more hushed approach, "I killed someone. No… one, two, three… _four _people. Don't you see? I'm an evil son of a bitch--"

"No, Dude. You're just--"

"_Fuck _you. You have no _fucking _idea…"

Stan was still, "…Kyle… I… I actually do…"

"No you don't you--"

"Kyle," he interrupted, "I… I killed Kenny…"


	5. Another Day, Another Murder

**Who Is That In The Mirror?**

_A fanfic from the slightly disturbed mind of the Californian who hates California._

Chapter 5: Another Day, Another Murder

Did I hear correctly? Did Stan just say that he _killed _Kenny? It wasn't possible. He was lying. He was just trying to make me feel better by… he couldn't be serious.

Stan looked at his own feet. His eyes were flooded with tears. He wringed his hands nervously, "I-I didn't mean to…" He looked up, "I swear I didn't…"

"…How?" I asked, "Kenny died in a car accident… he drove his car into a ditch doing ninety… he was drunk…"

Stan shook his head, "I killed him, Dude… I was driving home from Wendy's… it was late and… I was really tired… I didn't see him in front of me and I…" Stan wiped the tears from his eyes, "He wasn't drunk. I killed him. I fell asleep at the wheel, Dude… I _killed _him," Stan broke down crying and he threw his arms around me. I stood completely still as he embraced me, soaking my left shoulder with his tears. "I didn't mean to. I didn't mean to," he repeated over and over again.

I felt somewhat angry at Stan. What the fuck was he crying for? What happened with Kenny was complete unintentional. Here he was crying about what he had done, which was completely dwarf to everything I had done. I brushed Stan away, "It's okay, Dude." I tried to appeal sympathetic towards him, "It's alright."

He used his sleeve to mop away his tears, "Kyle, I know you didn't mean to kill all those people, too. I mean," he paused, "I understand, you see?" he chuckled a sort of nervous laugh, "I was so fucked up for days after that happened and… I understand, you see?"

I shook my head. He didn't understand. No one could. I killed four innocent people purely for my own sick pleasure. Stan didn't understand, and he never would. "Stan, I _meant _to kill them."

"No you didn't."

"Yes, I did." He was in denial. "Shit, Stan, would you give it a rest?"

"Kyle, I just--"

"No, Stan. I'm telling my parents about Ike. The truth."

"No, you can't--"

"Kyle!" my mom said from behind, "You're awake! Oh, thank God!" She and my dad rushed over and attacked me with hugs and kisses.

"Ma, I--"

"Oh, my poor baby!"

"Ma, please I--"

"Kyle, thank heavens you're okay!"

"Ma--"

"Don't worry, we'll find whoever did this to you!"

"_Ma_!" I pulled away. My mother finally shut up, "Ma, I need to tell you--"

"Cartman poisoned the orange juice," Stan said quickly.

"What?" my dad exclaimed.

"No!" I shouted, "It was--"

"Cartman must have did it before he ran away," Stan continued, pushing me out of view, "The last time I saw him he said he was going to make Kyle pay! He hated Kyle, because the fatty was a twisted racist! Everyone in the school knows it!"

"Is this true, Kyle?" My father questioned.

"No, I--"

"Kyle just doesn't want to get him in trouble!" Stan cut me short again, "He's the one that did it!"

I stared at Stan. He was bailing me out of trouble once again. This couldn't be happening. I was gonna get away with murder _again _and that fantastic sensation built up inside me once more. That damn perverted pleasure. It felt so good. I couldn't help it.

"Yeah!" I joined in, "It must've been him!"

And that was it. That's all it took. I was hooked. Stan thought he was helping, but little did he know, he had rekindled a flame that would burn and destroy so much. The feeling, the happiness, that I had loved, then hated, I once again loved. And as I drove home from the hospital, my mind was slowly creeping back into the dark, evil state it had once been. Only I didn't see it as evil, I saw it as sweet paradise.

I didn't even realize it, but I soon became obsessed with Stan. Not in a faggy, homo way. I was just… obsessed. I didn't even go to my grandpa's funeral, which became my grandpa and Ike's joined funeral. I told my parents I couldn't stand to be there and I went on that double date with Stan. I felt safe with him. I felt that in broad daylight, I could murder the entire town of South Park, and Stan would be able to save me from persecution.

The date was horrible though. Stan was Wendy's fucking slave all day and it made me sick. Wendy's cousin Marie was just as bad. She got pissed off because I wouldn't hold her purse while she and Wendy shopped for four fucking hours at the mall. Stan smiled throughout the entire day. He was so whipped.

I mean, Wendy was hot. Probably the finest girl in the school. But being hot did not make up for being a bitch. Especially when Stan left to get her a drink from the food court and Marie was in the dressing room trying on a skirt, and the two of us were alone.

She was flipping through a clothes rack and I stood beside her, bored as hell. She pulled out a short pair of blue jean shorts. She informed me she was going to try them on, and she disappeared into a dressing booth less than four feet away. Some three minutes later she called out, "Kyle!"

I walked over to the booth, "What?"

"How do you think this looks?" She opened the curtains a little, but I couldn't see her. I leaned in closer, and she pulled me into the dressing room.

She kissed me. No, she _attacked _me. She pushed me against the wall of the booth and pressed her lips hard against mine, her hands clawing through my hair. I pushed her off, "_What the fuck_?" I screamed.

She stared at me as if I had violated her. I left and I didn't say anything to her for the rest of the day and she said nothing to me. The fucking whore. I didn't tell Stan. Why would he believe me? His precious little Wendy would never do anything like that.

Like I said, I was obsessed with Stan. I called him everyday. I think he was what kept me sane, because one day I couldn't get a hold of him and I fucking lost it. I went to his house, but no one was there. I went to the school thinking maybe he had practice. But the only people that were there, were the cheerleaders, including Wendy.

"Hi, Kyle!" she acted so fucking innocent.

I didn't answer.

"Are you looking for Stan?"

"…yeah…"

"Well," she said, "He's supposed to meet me at my house in like," she checked her watch, "Oh my god! Right now!" She smiled at me, "Do you have your car?"

I nodded.

"Can you give me a ride?"

I hesitated, but I did. As we drove to her house, she was quiet. I was quiet. I felt so uneasy sitting next to her. We finally arrived at her house, and we went inside.

"Where's Stan?" I asked.

"I dunno!" she said looking around, "I swear, he should be here by now!" she shrugged, "I gotta go get ready," she said signaling at her uniform, "Make yourself comfortable, okay?"

"Okay…" God, I hated her. I sat down on the living room couch. Where was Stan? I stood up to go look out the window.

"Kyle?" Wendy called from down the hall.

"What?" I called back.

"Come here."

I followed the voice. She was in the bathroom. Not only that, she was in the tub. Naked. I stared at her. She was playing me. What a bitch. I was so angry. Did she think I was stupid? What the fuck was her problem?

"Can you hand me that soap on the sink, please?" she flirted.

I looked at the sink. A hair dryer that was plugged into a nearby outlet was sitting on it. I picked up the hair dryer and looked at Wendy.

Her eyes widened, "Kyle?"

I threw the hair dryer into the tub and Wendy shrieked as it hit the water. She continued to scream as bright, electric flashes blinded me. The bathroom filled up with dark smoke as she continued to fry. I stepped backward out of the bathroom, straining my eyes to see. I could no longer hear Wendy, but the fiery shocks continued.

I killed Wendy and it was fucking awesome. I left the house with a huge grin on my face, but it slowly disappeared when I saw Stan pull up in his car.

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Thanks so much for all of your reviews. Special thanks to Sofa King Danny, Leela's Tears, celler door androtten tomatoes, who have been there for me since my first spfic. I love you all. Note that chapter 7 will the final chapter for this fic.


	6. To Kill Or Not To Kill?

**Who Is That In The Mirror?**

_A fanfic from the slightly disturbed mind of the Californian who hates California._

Chapter 6: To Kill Or Not To Kill?

"What're you doing here?" Stan asked when he stepped out of his car and closed the door behind him. He walked up to me, "Kyle?" he said tilting his head to one side. He stared at me, his eyes searching my face for an answer.

I turned away from him and continued walking to my car. I reached into my front pocket, searching for my keys. Stan stood behind me, "Dude, what's going on?" I ignored him and opened the car door and slid inside. Stan stood there with a dumb look on his face, "Kyle?" he tapped on the window, "Dude!"

I drove away. He probably thought I was a jerk, but I couldn't just tell him that I just killed his girlfriend, his love, his life. Or at least that's what he had considered her. Shit, if only he knew. If only he'd believe me. If only he would have listened to me when I told him she was no good.

I got home and went straight up to my room. My parents were gone, probably at the market. I sat on my bed, waiting. Just waiting. I clenched my cell phone in my hands. Any minute now, it would jump and start ringing. I would answer it and it would be Stan. Any minute now.

Shit, what was taking him so long? What the fuck was he doing? Crying probably… Fuck, I hope that's all he was doing. What if he was calling Wendy's parents? What if he was calling the police? Shit, what the fuck would I do if he ratted me out? Would he do something like that? Would he betray me over a girl?

Wendy. God damn her. She was going to come between our friendship like she had done so many fucking times. Screwing up my fucking life even when she was dead. I didn't regret killing her though. I'd do it a million times if given the chance. She was nothing but a whore and she deserved it.

But Stan… Shit. He sure was going to be fucked up after this. He fucking loved her. He'd do anything for her. _Anything_. Man, I fucked up his life, by taking hers. How could I do that to my best friend? Crap, I wouldn't blame him if he told the cops everything.

But he _promised_. He said he was going to help me. He swore to God. He wouldn't betray me… would he?

Fuck, my head hurt. I needed aspirin. I remembered that I had some advil in my desk. I went and opened the drawer to retrieve the medicine. When I pulled open the drawer, the mirror that was once on my wall was in there.

I took the oval mirror in my hands and sat down, propped up against my desk with it. I laughed at the reflection, or at least I thought I did, but my face in the mirror stared back at me, not making the slightest motion. I waved my hand in front of the mirror, and my reflection did the same. But my reflection wore the same face. A pathetic, sad, and miserable look. But I didn't feel like that. I felt happy. Wasn't I happy?

I gave up and flung the mirror across the room. I sat there, still waiting. Why the _hell _hadn't he called yet? Shit! He was telling. I could feel it. He was a no good, dirty traitor. The fucking rat. I had to get him before he had a chance to snitch.

But I couldn't kill him. He was my friend.

But he was a fucking rat.

But he promised he would help, and he had never broken a promise before.

But he'd break one for Wendy, no doubt.

But I couldn't kill him after everything he had done for me.

But that was my only chance. He knew everything and he had to go.

But maybe I could just run away.

But he would snitch and they would find me sooner or later.

It had to be done. I had to kill Stan.

I left the house and climbed into my car. I started driving towards Wendy's house. I was maybe less than a mile away, when I spotted Stan's car ahead. Where was he going? It was in the direction of town. Fuck, he _was _telling.

I speeded up. I had to stop him. I had to catch up. Twenty five, thirty, thirty-five, forty… I went faster and faster. Stan increased his speed as well. The bastard really was going to rat on me!

It wasn't long before I was doing eighty-five miles per hour. I was right behind him now. Stan started to slow down and so did I. Our speed dropped to only seventy-five, which was still above the speed limit in the area. I was so close. There was maybe half an inch between the two of us. This was it. I finally had him. I grasped the steering wheel, and licked my lips. This was it. I hit the gas and my car made a big jump and Stan hit his breaks.

I smashed into him hard, sending both of our vehicles spinning out of control. I fought to gain control of my car, and I imagine he was trying to do the same. Fuck, I thought the turning and turning of the world would never end. Both of our cars came to a screeching halt. My car sat facing Stan's head to head. My window was shattered and I bet Stan's was too, only I couldn't see. Smoke rose from the hood of Stan's car and all I could hear was a long, continuous honk, from Stan's horn. The smoke finally cleared enough for me to see that indeed his window was shattered. Stan's head rested on his steering wheel, which was the cause for the horn's still ongoing noise. He didn't move.

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Remember, the next chapter is the final chapter. It's finished already and so I'll post it Wed. night. Thanks again for reading and reviewing. 


	7. Side By Side

**Who Is That In The Mirror?**

_A fanfic from the slightly disturbed mind of the Californian who hates California._

Chapter 7: Side By Side

I got out of my car ran over to the still motionless Stan. I opened his door and reached for him. I gently shook his shoulder, "Stan?"

He moved a little, turning his head to face me. He had a large gash in his forehead, and blood oozed down his face. He kept his right cheek pressed against the steering wheel, "…Kyle…" When he opened his mouth, a tiny bit of blood trickled out. He looked in pain, but he smiled at me, "…what'd you do that for?…" he gave a weak laugh.

"You…you were going to turn me in…"

Stan let out another short chuckle, "…why would I do that?…"

I stared at him. My heart sank. He wasn't going to rat me out… and now… he was dying… I killed him over _nothing_… "Oh my God…" I said shaking my head, "Dude, you gotta hold on!"

Stan shook his head, "…I forgive you, Dude… just… promise me something…"

"…What?"

"…promise me, that you'll cry at my funeral…"

I already felt my eyes drowned with tears. Stan simply smiled at me and then closed his eyes, and it was over.

That pleasure was not there. That wonderfully happy feeling that I got when I had killed everyone, did not surface for one split second when I watched Stan die. An ambulance and two police cars came some five minutes after Stan had died. Officer Barbrady was the one that discovered me sitting against Stan's car crying.

"What happened?" he asked me.

"We… crashed…" I could tell Barbrady had already figured that much out. I cleared my throat and wiped away the tears from my eyes, "…It was an accident…" I had to lie. How else would I be able to go to his funeral and keep my promise to him?

Officer Barbrady simply nodded his head and helped me off the ground. The ambulance took me to the hospital to check out some minor injuries I had gotten in the crash.

I got away with the murder of my best friend. Stan had left a note at his house, saying that he was going to go kill himself at Stark's Pond that day and he also said that he was responsible for Wendy's death. Everyone assumed that I had known this, and that I was simply trying to stop him when we got into the accident. I wondered if the part about suicide was true. Or did he know what I was going to do to him, and just wrote it so that he could help me get away with his own killing? Either way I felt terrible. I didn't sleep. I didn't eat.

Stan promised that he would help me and he did. After his death, I no longer had twisted thoughts about murder. I no longer felt proud about what I had done to Butters, Cartman, Grandpa, Ike, and Wendy. I felt… guilty. I felt… sad. I felt… sane. I was a normal person like I had been just a month ago. I was Kyle again. All thanks to Stan.

Stan's funeral was that Friday. His parents, sister, and I arrived at the ceremony earlier than everyone else. All four of us cried. And although I was silent, I knew the tears stained on my cheeks for the past few days were enough for Stan. His parents didn't want an open coffin, but I longed to see Stan just one last time. When the Marsh family had left out of sight, I approached my best friend's tomb.

Slowly and carefully, I opened the coffin. Stan lied there, his hands folded neatly, dressed in the suit he was supposed to wear to the prom. My tears fell from my eyes and onto his dead body.

"I'm _so _sorry, Stan," I wept. I stared at him. I couldn't imagine having to leave him. I didn't want to. I couldn't. I looked around to see if anyone was around. It was clear, "Scoot over, Dude," I said as I hoisted myself into the coffin. I climbed inside, and lied next to Stan. The lid fell closed.

Inside the box with Stan, there was just a small amount of light, seeping in through the sides of the coffin. I could hear the voices of people arriving. Then I heard the priest talking. I felt the coffin being lifted and then dropped. Then I felt suspended in the air. They were lowering us into the ground. There was a thud, and I knew we were in the whole in which we would remain for eternity. I held my breathe. Thump. Thump. Thump. They were burying us. Slowly, the little light that I had had, began to disappear. I looked to the side of me at Stan. I wanted him to wake up before all the light had gone, so that he could see me there next to him, crying, like I had promised.

But his eyes remained shut and the light went away, and I slowly fell asleep, never to awake again.

The End.


End file.
